


Daisy, Daisy

by ProseApothecary



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff with some short-lived angst, M/M, Perspective Flip, Post-Notapocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 13:41:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20528948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProseApothecary/pseuds/ProseApothecary
Summary: Crowley freezes as the stem of the daisy starts winding around his fingers and climbing up his arm. The petals tickle against his neck. He sneezes, and briefly wonders if being strangled by a daisy is the price to pay for crimes against plantkind.Until he sees Aziraphale flush, and realises that it is, of course, his fault.





	1. Looking Down

Crowley wonders why he’s still on edge, why the stakes still feel high when they’re lower than ever. No plagues, no locusts, no Satanic eruptions, no apocalypse.

Not even any clouds. The sun is shining down so hard that a daisy blooms next to their picnic blanket.

Crowley glances over at Aziraphale, who is, quite literally, glowing, and decides that it might not be the sun’s doing, after all.

He plucks the daisy, and says, “You may want to tone it down a little bit. People are starting to stare.”

“Sorry,” says Aziraphale, dimming his glow a little but beaming just as much.

Crowley freezes as the stem of the daisy starts winding around his fingers and climbing up his arm. The petals tickle against his neck. He sneezes, and briefly wonders if being strangled by a daisy is the price to pay for crimes against plantkind.

Until he sees Aziraphale flush, and realises that it is, of course, his fault.

The daisy unwinds itself and drops to the ground, where it puts down roots

“Apologies, dear” says Aziraphale. “Didn’t mean to. It’s just so exciting,” he says brightly, “Being free.”

Crowley had thought it would be rather more exciting.

He had read Aziraphale’s melodramatic romance novels.

He knew that once a maiden threw off her shackles of duty and obligation, she was supposed to go to her star-crossed other half (preferably running through a storm on the way) and pull them into a searing kiss. Or make some sort of dramatic declaration, at least.

Instead, Aziraphale was recounting how 3 more _Just William_ novels had ‘appeared in his bookshop overnight,’ and stating, sombrely, that he might have to start actually selling books to stop them overrunning the place, unless, of course, Crowley had a use for 39 children’s books.

Aziraphale couldn’t be waiting for him to make the declaration, surely. He’d been making declarations for the last millennium.

He doesn’t think he can make anymore, and he realises, suddenly, why it feels like this game has gone from poker to Russian Roulette.

Heaven was an excuse that turned a _no_ into a _maybe next time._ Now Aziraphale only answers to himself, and it’s gorgeous and _terrifying_, because there’s no _I can’t_, only_ I don’t want to._

_Perhaps_, Crowley thinks, _shackles of duty and obligation are the excuse that maidens come up with, when they’re too polite to tell the Byronic hero that he’s really only a friend, and perhaps they should only meet up once every six months, for tea and crumpets. _

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley is a little worried that he’s about to be quizzed on something, when he really hasn’t been listening for the past half-hour.

“I wanted to apologise. What I said on the airfield- I never would’ve gone through with it. I’m afraid threats aren’t very angelic.”

“They’re quite human,” says an increasingly uncomfortable Crowley. “And that’s all you have to be now.”

“I suppose,” says Aziraphale. “I just- I hope you know that you are my dearest friend.”

_Tea and fucking crumpets, _Crowley thinks.

It’s all he can do not to cry.


	2. Looking Up

Aziraphale wasn’t used to being untethered. He had expected to feel scared, or lost. He hadn’t expected to feel quite this happy. Everything seems quite perfect. Except for the fact that his bookshop is quickly developing a children’s section, but he supposes that’s not a _huge _deal, when you weigh it against The End of Days.

The sky is beautiful, the ducks are beautiful, Crowley is beautiful, even as he frowns at the flowering daisy.

_Crowley is beautiful_, he thinks again, because he isn’t feeling the twinge of guilt that usually follows the thought. Really, the world was outdoing itself today.

Aziraphale wonders if the twinge is gone for good, now. If he can imagine intertwining his fingers with Crowley’s. Perhaps even leaning in to-

Crowley makes an alarmed noise and Aziraphale notices, with horror, that the daisy seems to be following his lead.

He mutters an apology and manages to get the roots to sink back into the earth.

Perhaps he should try to keep his thoughts a _little_ more under control. Until Crowley tempts him, at least.

He’d practiced being tempted. He was a little worried that evading it for millennia might have become a reflex, so he’d stood in front of the mirror, rehearsing lines like “Alpha Centauri sounds perfect,” until he’d quite thoroughly embarrassed himself.

He reasoned it would be worth it when Crowley tried to tempt him.

Crowley hasn’t tried to tempt him yet.

He’s not sure why. Crowley can’t be waiting for Aziraphale to tempt _him_, surely. Aziraphale is trying to go faster, but he can only accelerate so much.

Perhaps it’s fatigue from the week they’ve had. He does seem a little subdued.

Perhaps Crowley is angry at him. He said things- things that he can’t quite regret, because they may be the only reason the world isn’t a pile of ash right now- but things he didn’t _mean_, certainly.

“Crowley,” he starts, “I wanted to apologise. What I said on the airfield- I never would’ve gone through with it. I’m afraid threats aren’t very angelic.”

“They’re quite human. And that’s all you have to be now.”

“I suppose,” says Aziraphale, realising that he’s saying it all wrong, making it about duty rather than love all over again. He thinks back to what Crowley said, when he cancelled his plans to go to Alpha Centauri, and hopes that echoing the sentiment is enough to accelerate things, just a little.

“I just- I hope you know that you are my _dearest_ friend.”


	3. Looking Straight Ahead

Crowley’s mouth twists. He gives a barely-there nod, looks away and says “It’s getting late. I should get back.”

And Aziraphale’s not sure how, but he’s very certain he’s Fucked Everything Up.

Crowley stands, and Aziraphale is about to let him leave, wait a week, until Crowley is ready to talk about this.

Until he considers the fact that the last time Crowley was really angry at him, they didn’t speak for a century.

“I’ve upset you,” he says hurriedly. “Tell me how to make it better.”

“You’re an angel. I’m a demon. Par for the course, really.”

Aziraphale frowns. “I thought we were on the same side.”

“Not always.”

“No,” says Aziraphale, suddenly angry, “You don’t get to disown that. After everything we sacrificed to _be_ on the same side-”

“If your sacrifice wasn’t _worth it_-”

“Of _course_ it was. I’m not the one sulking-”

“I know my being in love is very _inconvenient_ for you.” Crowley says, and swallows, as if he’s immediately trying to bring the words back down.

Aziraphale gapes. “Why-why _on earth-_,” he says, feeling his dwindling anger mix with hope and a flitting excitement, “-would that be inconvenient for me?”

”Forget I said anything,” Crowley says, turning to walk away.

Aziraphale sighs, very sure that the steering wheel is in his hands now.

“I love you too. So please don’t go disappearing off to Alpha Centauri.”

Crowley stops dead in his tracks, his fingers curling and unfurling.

He turns back to Aziraphale.

“You love a lot of things,” he says finally.

“Yes,” says Aziraphale. He loves Adam and Newt and Anathema, sunsets and Springtimes, classical composers and long-dead authors, including a few that ended up downstairs. “Not like this.”

Aziraphale’s never been a fan of legwork, but if Crowley is just going to keep staring at him, wide-eyed, he supposes he will have to make the effort.

“I thought,” he starts. “I thought, now that we’re free agents, we might see each other…well, more than once a regime change.”

“There’s a restaurant opening on Tuesday,” Crowley says, finally. “And Hamlet’s on at the playhouse this Friday. Saturday I was planning on going to Alpha Centauri-”

Aziraphale smiles. “Sounds like we’ll be very busy.”

“And tonight,” he says, “I was planning on going home and drinking till 3.”

“Well,” says Aziraphale, smiling his yes before he speaks it, “Do you have peppermint schnapps?”

“No one has peppermint schnapps.”

“I suppose we’ll make do,” he says, heading to the Bentley and leaning against the passenger door.

Walking much less smoothly than usual, Crowley makes his way over to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale briefly wonders if, miracle of miracles, Crowley wants him to drive

Until Crowley abruptly leans in and kisses him, before walking over to the driver’s side, growing pinker every second.

Aziraphale could swear he tastes peppermint schnapps.


End file.
